


2019 Poetry Club Shit

by Cheepers



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blasphemy, Childhood Memories, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Memories, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mild Language, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poetry, Psychosis, Random & Short, Recovery, Sexual Harassment, Slam Poetry, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-13 03:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21487567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheepers/pseuds/Cheepers
Summary: My class had a poetry club.
Kudos: 5





	1. Summer Scales (Summer Highlights)

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter is titled with the poem title itself, and the topic is beside said title in (parenthesis).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me disassociating while my gecko instigates.

I have stars on my ceiling.  
My feet, my legs, my dear usably crippled limbs  
Lay propped and forgotten against the wall  
My eyes glaze over and I stare up at cheap plasic

I hear gentle pattering.  
Cool raindrops against painted plaster.

Down, down, and down farther still,  
Until a twitchy moth-soft paw taps my biggest toe.  
Down, down, and down farther still.  
A tiny, swift heartbeat now at my knee.

I lower my glazed gaze and see a nuisance  
Her velvety paws gather beneath her

She wishes to jump  
To where, I can't be sure  
Her eyes are unfocused  
A shot in the dark, it seems

I hold my breath.  
As does she.

She jerks her head to face mine  
Not with much meaning  
Not with much of anything honestly  
An empty elevator on a musical loop

She closes the gap, sailing like  
A thick pancake tossed too high

An audible plop against my face  
I can no longer see my flimsy plastic stars  
Fragile heartbeats kiss my eyelids  
Curious peeping deepening in her throat

Leeching my warmth,  
She licks her eyes and settles onto mine.


	2. (Watermelon Juice)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E-girls lol

Dripping from her lips  
Blood  
Or maybe watery food dye  
I cant tell with her.  
Edgy girl, get down from that pedestal  
That high horse you hold so dear  
One day you might slip  
You might bust open  
Let those juices flow  
We leech from your lips then  
Soaking up your trauma  
Wet sponge, flickering tongues  
God how we thirst for more  
Popped open  
An overripe fruit  
Tell me, what shade of eyeshadow do you use?  
Bruised bride can no longer blush  
Flowing from your arms  
Fake  
Or maybe somewhat real,  
I can't see any proof  
Until you take off your clothes.


	3. Wooden (Identity)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suffer with severe Sexualized OCD, so many of my works revolve or relate to my struggles and my recovery.

Whittling wood,  
I want to carve something useful.

My house is dying.  
It knocks on all the doors.  
I lock my own each night.  
I keep a bat by my bedside, but  
I cant even play.

My house is dying.  
I have six bins in my wobbly stand.  
One for clothes and one that's always empty.  
Yet there must be at least one thing in every bin   
Aside from the aforementioned empty bin.

My house is dying.  
My skin crawls.  
I wake up sweating and scratching my head  
Tearing out hair and licking my bloodied fingernails  
Because I CAN'T leave-  
Leave no trace. No doubt about it,  
The city of Las Angeles in my head.  
All of them gambling how long I'll sleep next.

My house is dying.  
I'm sorry I yell I'm sorry I ramble and pick and prod and prattle on and on...   
I'm clingy because I will push you away.   
I know that time will come so please,   
Let me hold this a little while longer.

My house is dying.  
I love my mother. My God,  
She'd never hurt a fly. I love her more than anything. Yet...  
I keep a bat by my bedside.  
I lock my door each night.

Whittling wood,  
I want to carve something beautiful  
But I forget that I never learned how.


	4. Teardrop (Beetle)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 60 second topic time, I chose to write a poem based on the vibe I got for Massive Attack's song, "Teardrop". The album cover is what it's based on. Idk man I had 60 fucking seconds.

They crawl toward me  
Slowly slowly  
Black bubbles   
I pop beneath my heel.  
Chattering.  
Oil spill wings whispering  
Humming against my veins.


	5. Blaspheme (Petrichor/Smell of Rain)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OCD is many things. It can be obsessively cleaning, constant violent and sexual thoughts, or fear of committing blasphemy. I got a bit of everything, so enjoy me foaming at the mouth about how I was dealt the short stick lol

Dry lightning.  
Imagine being swallowed whole  
By the storm  
On Jupiter, does it rain?

Do you think God can bleed?  
Is she warm and wet  
That very womb we tore away?  
Biting the chord  
Basking in red honey  
Basking in the smell of

Does it rain on Jupiter?  
Somewhere far away from us  
Far away from our breathlessness and wars  
Far away from our   
Sweating and clashing and banging and writhing

Do you think God can hear us sing?  
Can she sing along?  
As a beautiful bird of spring?  
Or will she pick us apart, the Carrion crow  
Pulling out our arteries  
Analyzing our very being?

Will she play alongside?  
Drum her thousands of damp fingers  
Down, pressed harsh against my skull  
Hissing for me to be silent.

Has it ever rained on Jupiter?  
I beg for an answer.   
I can't hear anything.   
Over the din  
The roar.  
Dry lightning. 

Do you think God even cares?


	6. Apathy (We Aren't in Kansas Anymore)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bitch idk what the fuck this topic is supposed to make me feel so here some more fucking vent art I guess

Ouroboros.  
Endless loop.

Washing machine of voices  
Crashing and foaming  
Bubbling inside my ears.

I can't bring myself to be.  
Some days it's laziness  
Other days it's the itching  
That runs up and down my arms  
Claws never pierce the skin,  
Just perch atop my head.

I repeat myself a lot in writing,  
I've noticed.  
I ask a lot of rhetorical questions.  
I dont have the answers  
I doubt you will either.  
At this point, it's mostly them talking.  
I repeat myself a lot in writing.

Washing machine of voices  
All the dryers are broken  
Rats thump and fuck overhead  
Pale light flickers and nearly stops.  
'Deus ex machina', they quip  
It has nothing to do with the light.

A sick man once wondered about  
'Human mold'

Washing machine of voices  
Hypnotizing and humming.  
A buzzing.  
I pull out my clothes.

I hold my damp cloth,  
And for the fifth time that day,  
I break down in front of strangers.

Ouroboros.  
Endless loop.  
Washing machine of me.


	7. Florida Angels (Playground)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess where I live lol

Late December.  
My hands are numb.  
My feet are barefoot and gone.  
I wander the same road  
The little creek beside my house  
Ice cold, yet the fish are warm.  
Wiggly slimy bodies   
Sliding against my ankles  
Mud mushed between each toe  
I wriggle those tiny worms  
Unafraid of the cotton mouths  
Hiding in the whispering brush.  
Trevor's yard is alive.   
Jealousy, perhaps?  
I always wanted Christmas lights.  
We couldn't afford them.  
We couldn't care to put them up.  
Playing in the murkiness  
Mud mushing through my fingers  
Making messy shapes.  
Florida angels.  
Every evening,  
I wander the same road  
The little creek beside my house  
Where cotton mouths hide  
In the swishing cattails.


	8. Double Helix-ed Licorice (Stale)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dysphoric masterbation is dissociative hell.

My legs spread open like month-old fruit  
A fine red mist from long ago  
Sweet to none, the houseflies, none.  
And I am bitter  
And I am not what I want.

My inner fingers are crooked inward  
The bones fused there long ago  
Self-pleasuring addict on sugar high, crash  
And I am stale  
And I am not what I want.


	9. Kramer, I Had Sex With Her! (Canned Laughter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the more self LOATHING spikes in my head. I get a lot of petrified rage that builds up.

I want to be the butt of a dumb joke  
The bit that goes on too long  
The fly that tears a chunk from the horse's ass  
I want you to hate me

I don't think it's degrading. 

All I know, is that glaring makes me cry  
And I demand more.   
I am so touch starved that it hurts to be hit   
But I want you to do it again. 

I hate pain but the fucked part of me  
Wants something   
Anything  
To come my way

I have spent years   
Fearing the worst from the best  
I want something  
To come out of this nothing.

A raised hand  
When the hell is it going to hurt?  
Why are you standing there?

I want to go toe to toe with God  
I want to strangle everyone who's ever smiled  
At me

I want to be the one   
Holding my hand high  
I want to yank the blanket from under  
I want something

I want to be the butt of a dumb joke.  
The bit that goes on too long  
But eventually ends  
And is never brought up again.


End file.
